


doth still conceal

by tanninsandampersands



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 23:13:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5024338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanninsandampersands/pseuds/tanninsandampersands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'She sees him next bent over a piece of fossilised TARDIS coral. “And you are?”</p><p>“Just” – pause – “a private collector.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	doth still conceal

**Author's Note:**

> There might be one or two sentences toeing the line to Explicit, just so you know.

With one hand she’s fisting the V of his waistcoat, smirking as the fabric strains at his shoulders, at the tiny sound of a thread breaking and beginning to unravel a seam; with the other she’s gripping the back of his neck, her nails scraping at the edge between his cool skin and the cooler sleekness of his hair. He’s dark and slim and if his hair was only longer it might – was it really that simple?

The sex was quite vanilla, eerily silent, and worse, an afterthought.

What should matter were his fingers deep inside her, his knuckles caressing her labia and nudging her perineum, his thumb pressing indelicately at her clit, and yet –

She had nursed this fantasy for at least three – _ohsopolite_ – bidding wars. Well, in her fantasies it had been a naked wooden crate, and by this point he’d certainly replaced his fingers and there had been a bottle of wine and a cork and a corkscrew – and she’d let it slip and he had duly caught it. Well, the general idea. Finally.

He was very, very good at everything except colour.

 

_The rosé was exceptional, the art – Colophon, Monan, Outhousian – interesting, fascinating and, above all, computer-art, which was the reason she had come – but it was not Time Lord. There was always the slim chance these exhibits had something Gallifreyan, something that had been left behind, something that was real and tangible and static and not slipping away from her._

_He was that small sigh behind her shoulder, validating her disappointment._

 

The back of somebody’s shop (his?), quite stuffy and dark except a handful of weak gaseous ball-bulbs bumping each other and the ceiling. He’d spread a cloth to which still clung wood wool and the smell of aged paper on top of a great titanium box, his features sliding from maddeningly neutral into a pained kindness, and further into a smile. 

 

_She sees him next fourteen systems over and five hundred years in the past, bent over a piece of fossilised TARDIS coral. “And you are?”_

_“Just” – pause – “a private collector.”_

_It was barely an attraction, but he was… comfortable._

 

His cheekbone is against her hair; his knees nudge hers, neither pressing her thighs apart nor together. The constriction of her trousers and pants is all she’s getting. His overly-thoughtful cloth bunches beneath her, the coldness of the metal seeps through. 

 

_They’d met across half a transcendental equation, a set of gold robes, an epic poem, a blackened Prydonian ring, a phrase trapped in a bell jar, and a dozen of other things that no Time Lord ever had anything to do with, all in different spaces, different times. Didn’t matter what it was, where, when; he was there, offering her a nod here, a glass of wine there. And all the time outbidding her._

 

 _Time Agent_ , she’d thought. Now she’s not so sure. He smells like what she’d expect – age and dust and human hormones, no pheromones to speak of – but there’s something about his concentration, his lack of even a sharp exhale. His heartbeat is steady and unflatteringly slow and somehow _wrong_ , putting into her head the idea of bile rising in her throat, of something learnt a thousand years ago at the knee of Madame, of something that couldn’t be and wasn’t –

She tangles her fingers in the coarse, dark fibres of his jacket, slips a hand between it and a spotless shirt and pushes it off his shoulder. “No,” he says – the word booming into the silence – with a wrinkle between his brows and a benevolent glint in his eyes. He shrugs the jacket back on, and she has to contend with stroking his clothes like skin. She hasn’t so much as brushed his lips with hers yet; he’s leant repeatedly and delicately away from her angled chin and her pout, and so she’s not pressing the matter. Not yet.

 

_  
“Why Time Lords?” he’d said._

_“Hm?”_

 

His free hand finds hers, bends it away from his lowest waistcoat button and a gentle, uncalloused thumb strokes the skin on the inside of her wrist. 

 

_“Why not any number of other mythologies?”_

_“Hobby.”_

 

His mouth is at her throat, the tip of his tongue chasing the surges of blood through her carotid.

 

_He makes a noise that is more undignified that she’s ever imagined him making, a guttural, angry thing. “You wrote a thesis on a Time Lord. That’s more obsession than hobby.”_

_“It’s been a long time since that was true.”_

 

He curls his fingers with a laziness edging towards boredom, bearing them down on her g-spot and she feels hot and human and the sound of her erratic breathing echoes around the room and it rankles.

Her toes curl in her boots as he grinds the heel of his hand against her vulva, her supersensitive clit, causing a gush of moisture between her thighs and the probably accidental pulling of some tangled pubes –

With her forehead on his shoulder, she lets go, and to spite him she’s as loud as she possibly can.


End file.
